Penned in Vain
by chromeknickers
Summary: "How vain is it to sit down to write when you have not stood up to live?" - A collection of Post-Hogwarts drabbles featuring the Slytherin loner, Theodore Nott.
1. A New Beginning

The following is a collection of Post Hogwarts drabbles featuring the Slytherin loner, Theodore Nott. A new prompt will be issued every other week, and I will try my best to keep a consistent theme. The prompt and challenge are listed below.

* * *

**A New Beginning**

The dream was always the same: barefoot on white shores with the wind howling at his back. The ocean roared behind him, enticing him, but he could not turn. Instead, he could only look ahead to a worn cobbled path that led to a clearing. Beyond that stood countless rows of crosses and tombs – crooked and bent, but uniform. In the midst of this graveyard rose a greying mausoleum, looming over him with its sepulchral shadow. Littered at his feet were not flowers but tattered pages torn from ancient tomes yellowed with age. He need not look up to read the inscription etched in marble. Instead, he knelt before the mocking monolith with arms spread wide in supplication as the sky darkened in anger and a bell tolled in the distance. Then the dream ended, and he woke up. _Alone_.

Standing bent under the shower-head, he let the scalding hot water pelt down his back, easing the tension. But nothing could relieve the stress that his body carried. The weight of the dead was a heavy burden borne only by those who could not move forward, and Theodore Nott was a man tethered by obligation.

He stepped out of the shower and grabbed a soft towel, meticulously drying himself off before he headed to the bedroom. Crisp linen, pressed and perfect, sat atop an equally immaculately made bed. With deliberate movements, he attended to his funeral attire, methodically dressing himself as he rehearsed the eulogy in his mind.

There was no need for speeches, as he knew no one else would be attending. Theodore had heard the biting words whispered behind his back: "I didn't attend the funeral, but I sent a nice letter saying I approved of it." Childish. Insensitive. But were they right? His father had lost whatever respect and renown he had years ago, after the war. No one cared that he had died an old man, sick and insane in prison. No one cared that his son was now alone – was _always _alone. There was no sympathy for his father or for him. But Theodore understood filial duty, regardless that his father was not a good man. Duty, like action, was perfunctory, and he would honour his father.

After the funeral, though, there would be no more obligations. And, Theodore absently wondered if the dream would then change. Would the cemetery only be a rolling meadow in the distance where children laughed and gathered flowers? Would the ocean finally be exposed to him – wide and infinite – beckoning him towards a new beginning?

He had no answers, but even in that, he had found hope.

* * *

**Prompt #1: **Cemetery

**Challenge****: **Include the quote by Mark Twain: "I didn't attend the funeral, but I sent a nice letter saying I approved of it."

**Word Count: **443


	2. An Adventure

**An Adventure**

She had told him it would be an adventure.

_Right_.

He supposed it served him justly for trusting Loony Lovegood's advice that the Knight Bus would be the ideal transportation for his trip. Now he was stuck on the purple triple-decker bus of doom, clinging for dear life as he dodged luggage chests that whizzed past his head with surprising velocity. And, with physical harm to his person inevitable, Theodore Nott had come to rue the day he took up employment at _The Quibbler_.

The ex Slytherin had only been working at the wizarding tabloid for a little under a month, ever since he quit his position as Junior Researcher at the Ministry. He had decided to become a writer of all things. If he had bothered to announce his decision, what good friends he had would have been shocked by his sudden change in vocation; however, Theodore had no such friends and no need to worry about such trivialities.

When Draco found out, though, the blond literally scoffed at the notion. With his father dead, Theodore inherited everything, which in turn suggested that he live his life as a gentleman of leisure. Surely there was no need to seek employment. Blaise had even suggested he be provincial: write a book of poems; compose an anthology of interest. Theodore, however, would not be swayed. He wanted to be an author who lived what he wrote – no more hiding in the shadows with his nose between the pages of some antiquated tome. He sought experience; he sought opportunity.

For all his money, though, Theodore's name no longer held any prestige. He had never participated in the war, but his neutrality could not redeem him from the aftermath. No reputable publisher or newspaper would have him, so that is when he went to Xenophilius Lovegood – nay, Luna Lovegood – for employment. It was she who had suggested this hellish road trip to begin an assignment of the utmost peculiarity: to report on witches and wizards attempting to assimilate into Muggle culture. Though highly unorthodox, it was an original endeavour, and Theodore was uncertain of his abilities on said assignment, whilst incognito. However, before he could take off the shackles of wizarding life and throw himself to the wolves of plebeian Muggles, he would have to endure the Knight Bus – tripping over snoring ruffians and being catapulted down sets of stairs. And, as he evaded a particularly heinous-looking toothbrush that sought his mouth with the deliberate intensity of an unspoken _Accio_ spell, Theodore wondered if he had made the right decision in switching professions.

She _had_ told him it would be an adventure, but it was only an adventure if he survived.

* * *

**Prompt #2: **Road Trip

**Challenge****: **Include the Knight Bus as your main source of transportation.

**Word Count: **452


	3. No Place Like

**No Place Like**

It wasn't even close to winter in Moscow, yet the frost on the windows at the train station and the whitened roofs of the houses outside belied the city's true season. The cold afternoon glowed with a hazy lemon light, with shadows a delicate blue. A thin coat of ice crushed the puddles in the streets, and the threat of light snowfall later in the evening was hardly idle.

He had arrived at Belorussky Station, cold and tired, draped in expensive grey robes lined with white fur. Standing rigid beside an grand stone fireplace, he resisted the urge to hold his hands out over the fire for warmth. He had large hands: wide yet particularly adroit, despite their clumsy appearance. Their size suited his stature, a young man of considerable height. His lanky build was intensified by his leanness, but it was a perspective sort. Profiled, he seemed weedy, weakly built. Head-on was another matter: he was almost imposing, as though he hid, coiled about his body, some incalculable strength.

But not even his height could make Theodore remarkable. In fact, the only features he possessed that allowed a forgettable face to be memorable were his eyes: round sea-green irises with flecks of gold. Set off by shallow cheekbones and a strong jaw, Theodore's eyes were far too large for his face. But it was those bright, _seemingly_ warm-coloured eyes full of indifference and pride that distanced him from everyone else, except from _her_.

She had somehow entered the station without notice, gliding across the floor with eerie grace. Clad in white furs, she reached for sandy blond tendrils that escaped from the confines of her hood and smoothed them back into place. Willowy arms rested at her sides as she walked, and upon her feet were bright ruby red slippers, twinkling with magic.

In moments, she had reached him. He stood properly to greet her, inhaling laboriously through his nostrils as he inclined his head. "Lovegood."

Her lips curled into a lazy smile and protuberant silvery grey eyes closed in an almost coquettish manner. "Theodore," she airily breathed his name, "I trust your journey here was adventurous."

He grimaced. Obviously, she did not take the same route as he: the Knight Bus express to London, the Eurostar to Brussels, and then the Cologne sleeping-car to Moscow.

She clicked her red heels together, unperturbed by his stony silence, and withdrew her wand. Pointing it at her shoes, she whispered a short spell before pocketing her wand and the shimmer of her slippers softened.

Theodore let out a quiet grunt of annoyance. "Portkey?" he asked, motioning to her shoes.

She nodded in answer.

He would have asked why he had to take Muggle transportation to this frozen wasteland, but the answer would have been obvious – and much to his chagrin.

"Where do I begin?" he asked slowly, and was momentarily startled when she reached out to take his arm and rest her hand upon it.

"We begin with a place unlike any other: home."

* * *

**Prompt #3: **Moscow, Russia

**Challenge****: **There's no place like home (picture of ruby red slippers)

**Word Count: **510


	4. Anything Is Possible

**Anything Is Possible**

Rising before dawn should be outlawed. At least that was Theodore's sentiment when he heard the alarm blare next to his ear, blinking a hellish hour that had no right to exist.

Misha, his workmate (and roommate) cursed unintelligibly in Russian, reaching over to the bedside cabinet they shared. Mashing indiscriminately at buttons with sausage-like fingers, he finally achieved success, and the contraption's infernal racket ceased. Pavel's snoring, however, could not be so easily silenced, nor could the sound of heavy rain pelting against the siding.

With flannel blankets nestled snugly beneath his chin, Theodore turned a heavy head to glance out the grimy window hung with sooty lace curtains. The grime would soon be washed away as the wind slanted the rain sideways, assailing the tiny cabin with surprising force. Suddenly, a bolt of lightning lit up an otherwise obsidian sky, with thunder rumbling its belly a few seconds later. The rain poured harder now, and a dark chill seeped into the room, settling a barely visible layer of frost on the dirt floor and oily walls.

Grimacing, Theodore folded back the thick woollen covers and brought two large palms to his tired eyes, rubbing gently. The dying embers smoking in the hearth did nothing to warm the cold that laced his bones, and an involuntary shudder ran throughout his body as he swivelled his body out from under the covers, exposing it to the frosty air. His bare feet barely made contact with the floor before he took in a sharp hiss of breath, immediately lifting them back onto the bed. Diving his fists under the covers, he vainly sought after the elusive woollen stockings that he had managed to lose in his restless slumber. Both pairs were soon located at either end of the single bed, where he yanked them out, swiftly unrolling them and stuffing his frozen feet inside.

_"Teddy?"_

_"Yes, Mama?" he answered sleepily, pulling up his stockings._

_His mother smiled and tiptoed into his room. "It's time to go, poppet," she whispered, helping him with his shoes._

_"Papa—"_

_"We must be quiet as mice," she warned softly._

_Winking, she lifted him up and Apparated them both to a field just outside the manor. It was cold out, and the early morning sky was a dark azure. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and Theodore trembled in his mother's arms._

_"Courage, love," she whispered against his ear, kissing his temple._

_She took out her wand with her free hand and lit it. Only a few steps were taken before she came upon a large sycamore tree – leaning against it was a bright red umbrella. Setting Theodore down on her lap, she circled an arm about his waist._

_"Teddy, I need you to be a brave boy."_

_He nodded his head solemnly, his round sea-green eyes shining._

_"Hold onto this with all you strength," she said, gesturing to the umbrella, "and Mummy too."_

_She smiled, hugging him close, as they both reached out to simultaneously touch the umbrella. Theodore felt a tug at his navel and was soon spinning through the air. He felt his mum's grip around his waist tighten, and they were no longer spinning but floating, landing softly on the grass._

_"My brave boy," she beamed, picking him up to kiss his cheek._

_Theodore's eyes widened, taking in the view in front of him: a massive stadium filled with countless cheering people._

_"Where are we, Mama?" he asked with wonder, not noticing the rain that had begun to fall._

_"We are at the Quidditch Cup tourney!" she exclaimed, sprinting to nearby shelter. "Proudsticks versus the Magpies!"_

_Giddy with excitement, she put Theodore down and led him through the bustling stadium, searching for their seats in the lower section._

_"Why didn't Papa come?" Theodore asked, taking his seat under the cover of the brewing storm._

_"Papa's busy," she answered. Then, seeing the sad look on his face, her voice softened. "Besides, this is _our_ time, Teddy."_

_Theodore glanced up, his lips curving into a wide smile. "Like an adventure?"_

_"Exactly!"_

_He let out a soft laugh, and looked up at the sky, watching the players fly about before the game._

_"They're so high, Mama."_

_"You're going to fly like that some day, Teddy."_

_"I am?"_

_"Of course. You can do anything, Teddy. _Anything_."_

"Morning, Fyodor," came Pavel's gravely voice, breaking through Theodore's reverie. "The storm is on its way."

Theodore nodded silently, rising to his feet.

"How do they expect us to work in this weather?" Misha complained to no one in particular, finally rolling out of bed.

Theodore let the shadow of a smile grace his lips before he grabbed his work clothes off the hook beside his bed. Today was going to be a hard, wet day, but he would find a way to do it – because anything was possible now.

It always was.

* * *

**Prompt #4: **Quidditch game

**Challenge****: **Game takes place at the crack of dawn, in the middle of a storm.

**Word Count: **838

**Author's Notes: **This prompt threatened the chronology of my arc, but I overcame! *pumps fist triumphantly in the air* I broke this into two parts because I really wanted to show Theo at the work camp before the flashback. For your benefit, though, I combined them for easier reading.

FYI: Fyodor is the Russian equivalent to Theodore (with Fedya being the shortened name, or name of affection). It should also be noted that Misha is the shortened name for Mikhail. So, the boys are rather familiar with one another since they do not use patronymic names.


	5. Shadows

**Shadows**

The shadows from the fire lapped against the walls: dark, shadowy waves that rose higher as the room took on motion. He felt himself sinking downward, into a bottomless black ocean. He strained his eyes but could see nothing except the dark, scarlet waves that roared hungrily over him. Finally, he made out what he sought: her mute face, faint and distant. And, so he closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep.

He awoke to the sound of an owl outside his window. Seeing nothing and no one, he found himself alone. His workmates had already left, so he quickly rose and fetched himself a meagre meal of bread and cheese, with a cup of lukewarm tea. Finishing off the vestiges of his breakfast, he donned his winter clothing and headed outside into the cold.

Head bent, he sombrely walked across the compound towards the mill, the sound of snow crunching beneath his boots. The path seemed longer than he had remembered: something to the effect of a country road dipping towards the sea, though here there was no sea but a mere stretch of road and a great expanse of trees.

Slackening his pace, he drew his gloves tighter and glanced up at the mill; the shadows of early morning were thick upon it, seeming to expand and contract. The wind, intermittently rising, seemed to catch the shadows, flinging them against the side of the building. They were beaten and bruised – if shadows could be bruised – hiding on windows and doors with only the rough shape of the mill discernible below.

He thought, in a faint fancy too indistinct to be considered distress, of himself being flung in that steady recurrence against a bleak wall, and it somehow saddened him that he should not be bruised. Gratitude of the physical world, though, seized him, and he twisted his fingers in his gloves, even striking his knuckles together to assure him of firm flesh and plotted bone.

And, as if that slight tap had been at a door to announce a visitor, he saw a woman outside the shadows, leaning against a tree. He could not, in the pale moonlight, see her very clearly, but there was something about her form that reminded him of someone. Waiting in front of the seemingly desolate mill, he watched her come down the path, and then he saw nothing but her.

He felt neither nervousness nor fear; that was still to come or had already passed. All he knew in that moment was an aching need to touch her, to confirm that she was real.

But she wasn't.

Through the shadowed veil of a dream he had found her again. But she was no more tangible now than she had been on the day she said goodbye – on the day he whispered his love to the winds: _to me, you are perfect._

Some day he would tell her. Until then, she would remain a visage in his dreams, and in his heart.

* * *

**Prompt #5: **Unrequited Love

**Challenge: **Include the phrase: "To me, you are perfect" [from the movie _Love Actually_] without using any actual dialogue for that specific phrase.

**Word Count: **503

**Author's Notes: **Dun dun dun! Yes, it was just a big tease! Hopefully, the right prompt will come along, and I can properly hint at his unrequited love.


	6. Only an Artist Can

**Only an Artist Can**

It was a cool spring evening, and their breath clouded in the air. With tired limbs, the two men shouldered the heavy equipment and began their walk back to the cabin; hunger rumbling in their bellies. From the top of the hill, they could discern the outline of the camp below – and the endless horizon before them. It was dusk, and the sky swirled outward, away from the dying sun. A palette of pink, from magenta to puce, flowed from an invisible brush to canvass, dazzling their senses with a kaleidoscope of colour.

"I don't think I've ever seen a sky so beautiful," Misha remarked, as he and Theodore made their way down the hill. "Is the sky this colour where you're from?"

Theodore nodded and closed his eyes in remembrance. "An endless green ocean swallows the sun whole, as the sky flushes scarlet then magenta, colouring the foam and staining the shores…" he trailed off, opening his eyes, and shook his head in embarrassment.

Misha gave him a knowing look and glanced back at the sunset. "Only an artist could paint such beauty."

_"Papa, I painted you a picture," Theodore announced proudly, walking into his father's office, clutching a canvas in his small hands._

_"I am busy right now," came Mr Nott's distracted voice, preoccupied with the papers in front of him._

_"But I made it for you," Theodore persisted, placing his picture on his father's desk._

_"Stop that!" Mr Nott admonished, clucking his tongue in disapproval. "You're getting paint on everything."_

_Theodore mumbled an apology and bowed his head. Shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot, he finally raised his sea-green eyes in earnest. "Do you like it, Papa?" _

_Mr Nott let out a grunt and resumed his work, ignoring his son. "I'm going to have to have a talk with your mother," he said somewhat warningly, peering over the rim of his glasses. "The sky is _blue_, Son, not red."_

_Theodore lowered his eyes and slid his painting off his father's desk. Slinking out of the office like a defeated hero, he was met by his young mother, who was waiting outside in the hallway._

_"What did your father say?" she asked, giving her son a hopeful look._

_Theodore glanced up, tears brimming. "He said the sky is _blue_, not red."_

_"Oh, Teddy," she cooed sympathetically, kneeling before her distraught son. "Artists can colour the sky red because they know it's blue." She reached out with a slender finger, lifting his trembling chin. "Those of us who aren't artists must colour things the way they really are or people might think we're stupid." _

_Winking, she held out her arms, and he folded into her embrace effortlessly. When she finally let go, he stood back and looked down at his painting with doubt._

_"Should I colour the sky blue, Mama?"_

_"No, Teddy," she said without hesitation, bringing both hands to his shoulders. "You can colour the sky however you imagine it." She smiled brightly. "Because you are an _artist_."_

* * *

**Prompt #6:** Pink Sky

**Challenge:** Include the quote by Jules Feiffier: "Artists can colour the sky red because they know it's blue. Those of us who aren't artists must colour things the way they really are or people might think we're stupid."

**Word Count:** 522


	7. Free Falling

**Free Falling**

The sun woke Theodore early, although he had been out most of the night. Yesterday had been his last day of work, and Misha and Pavel had decided to help him celebrate by taking him out drinking at the local tavern.

It was too hot out to have tea, so he settled for ice water and cold biscuits. As he ate, he could hear Misha and Pavel snoring, and a subtle grin passed over his face as he thought back to last night's activities. Quickly finishing his breakfast, he headed to the bathroom and began to strip off his undervest and trousers. He turned the spigot on at full force, waiting for the ice-cold water to run lukewarm. Stepping under the shower-head, he picked up the bar of soap and began to lather.

A minute had passed when the damp hairs on the back of his neck began to rise, and his ears prickled at a familiar sound just outside the curtained bathtub. Pulling back the curtain and exposing himself in all his wet, naked glory, Theodore's sea-green eyes met protuberant silvery grey. Blinking slowly, he finally registered the familiar face in front of him.

"Hullo, Theodore," Luna greeted, dusting off her robes.

Theodore stood motionless for a moment and then felt the cool water trickle down his belly. Stooping down, he turned off the valve and unabashedly stepped out of the tub past Luna.

"Lovegood," he greeted stiffly, wrapping a large towel around his torso. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Luna," she corrected. "I'm here to take you home."

Theodore squeezed the water out of his long hair and frowned thoughtfully. He had forgot that he would have to return home. His year-long assignment of posing as a Muggle was over, and he found himself somewhat hesitant about returning to England.

"Can I get dressed first?" he asked, motioning to his half-nakedness.

Luna's smile brightened, unfazed by his modesty. "Take all the time you need," she said, leaving him his privacy.

After hastily getting dressed, Theodore searched the inside of the cabin for Luna. Unable to locate her, he stepped outside and found the blonde inspecting a small garden just behind the shack. Leaning against the wall beside her were two riding brooms.

"We're flying to England?"

Luna glanced up at the sky. "The weather is quite lovely for a broom ride, don't you agree?"

Theodore grimaced. He now knew why people called her 'Loony'.

"I just need to leave a note for my friends," he said, clearing his throat anxiously. In all honesty, Theodore was worried about flying. "I… I've only ever flown the once."

Luna's smile never wavered. "I will show you how."

Theodore sighed, knowing this was going to happen whether he wanted it to or not. He'd convince himself that it was another adventure, something else to write about, but he still couldn't help but worry. What if he fell?

"To live is to fall," Luna said solemnly, as though reading his mind. "To survive is to find meaning in the falling."

* * *

**Prompt #7**: Flying is learning how to throw yourself at the ground and miss.

**Challenge**: Use the following dialogue verbatim. "To live is to fall. To survive is to find meaning in the falling."

**Word Count**: 524

**Author's Notes**: Luna's back. Back again. Luna's back. Tell a friend.


	8. Coming Down

**Coming Down**

Flying: the art of falling and not dying.

It was a frightening and gut-wrenching (cold as hell, too), but Theodore loved every minute of it. Exhilarating was how he'd later describe it: feeling the wind envelop him as he soared through the air uninhibited.

It was freedom.

It had been a long time since he'd felt this way – if ever – and when they both finally landed outside his manor the next morning, Theodore found himself missing the feeling of weightlessness, of reckless abandon.

"That was fun," Luna commented airily, stepping off her broom. "We should do that again some time."

Putting a hand to her hair, she began to adjust the wilted violets she had placed in her plait: a handful of flowery treasures she had acquired in Denmark. There, they had landed in a field of wild flowers at dusk, and as he made camp (having returned his wand), she made them crowns.

"Thank you, Love—Luna," Theodore corrected himself, giving the blonde a slight nod. He went to hand her back her broom, but she shook her head.

"Keep it," she said. "You'll need it." And, with a loud crack, she vanished into the morning haze, traces of her lopsided grin trailing behind.

Theodore could not help but smile to himself as he grasped the broom. Setting it against the gates to his lonely family manor, he took out his wand and began performing the appropriate counter spells to the wards set in place. Once he stepped past the threshold, the smell of books and stale air assaulted his olfactory senses. The place was immaculate, not a speck of dust to be found, but it wasn't lived in; it reeked of loneliness and abandon.

—Crack—

"Master Nott," came the voice of an old, small greyish creature with flopping ears and a long nose, "you've returned."

Another crack sounded, and a second house-elf, female and much tinier, stood beside the taller house-elf.

"Master Teddy!" squealed the tiny elf. "Gracie is so happy you are home!" She made to sprint toward Theodore, but the older elf grabbed her by the shoulder and pulled her back.

"Gracie, Mr Nott is our master," he chastised. "You must be respectful."

The tiny elf lowered her head in shame. "Gracie is sorry, Kip." She glanced up pitifully at Theodore with saucer-wide eyes. "Sorry, Master… Nott."

She then walked over to the table and picked up a lamp, prepared to beat herself with it. Instead, Theodore took the lamp from her hand.

"It's fine, Gracie," he told the tiny elf, who suddenly beamed with happiness. "You may call me Teddy."

Theodore set the lamp back on the table and stood back to regard his two new (not so new) housemates. "Gracie, can you open some windows to air out the manor?"

Gracie nodded her head emphatically. "Yes, Master Teddy," she said before Apparating away.

Theodore then turned to the diligent elf. "Kip, can you make some breakfast?"

"Yes, Master," Kip bowed gracefully, if not a little bent, and disappeared into the kitchen.

Theodore made his way up the stairs to his room. Opening the door and setting his wand on the dresser, he perambulated about the room. Once settled, he began to strip off his thick coat and outerwear, intent on cleansing himself of his Muggle life. It wasn't that he hated it; in fact, he relished in the hard labour and simplicity of it all. But, he was tired and wanted nothing more than to be clean.

He quickly drew himself a bath and washed before Kip could summon him to breakfast. Drying off, he attempted to get dressed but found that none of his old clothes fit: they were far too tight. After a few failed attempts at alteration, he opted to just wear his undervest and a pair of snug trousers.

While trying to do up a button on his trousers, he glanced over at his desk. On top was a rectangular box: a keepsake where he kept reminders of his mother. Abandoning the stubborn button, Theodore sat at his desk and opened the lid, sifting through items he had not looked at since before he went to Hogwarts.

Inside were pictures of his mother and himself, smiling and laughing, and he absently wondered why he had never had these framed. Why had he kept them locked away? He supposed the memories of what he had lost were too painful back then, and now he just longed to remember.

Looking back inside, he spotted a small golden box. He carefully reached inside and took the smaller box out, pushing the larger box aside. On this lid was an inscription: '_Grace, May You Forever Fly Towards Your Dreams_'.

Theodore opened the lid and looked inside: there was a golden Snitch on a chain, much like a necklace. A lump formed in his throat, and he quietly closed the lid. He wasn't ready for this yet.

"Master Teddy?" came Gracie's voice from outside the door.

"I'll be down in a moment, Gracie," he said, swallowing hard.

"Master Teddy, you have guests."

Theodore rose from his seat and opened the door, looking down at the meek house-elf. "Who?"

"Master Malfoy and Mistress Greengrass."

"Greengrass?" Theodore asked absently. Doing up his button, he began his descent down the stairs.

"Theo," Draco greeted. "We heard you just got in." He then looked Theodore up and down and raised a blond eyebrow. "You're as brown as a bean!"

"It looks good on him," Astoria admonished Draco before turning to regard Theodore with a slight look of awe. "My, you've become quite the beast, Theodore."

Theodore gave Astoria a puzzling look before he glanced down at his arms and chest. He was quite big – as his mother would have said, he filled out. No wonder his clothes didn't fit.

"I'm about to have breakfast. Would you two care to join me?" he asked, suddenly feeling quite naked in front of Astoria.

"No, we just came to deliver you the invitation," Astoria said, smiling bashfully – to Theodore's discomfort and Draco's chagrin.

"Invitation?" Theodore noted the ring on Astoria's finger and smiled wanly.

"Yes, my sister is getting married."

"Daphne?" Theodore choked out in surprise, all sense of composure gone. "Married? When?"

"Tomorrow," Astoria answered dubiously, looking to Draco for assistance. "We couldn't get a hold of you to tell you earlier—"

Theodore was no longer listening. All he could think of was shadows, secret glances, and whispered words: _to me, you are perfect_.

He had to do something, and he had to do it fast.

* * *

**Prompt #8:** Violet

**Challenge:** Golden Snitch

**Word Count:** 1,174

**Author's Notes:** This was originally broken into two parts. I combined these for your reading pleasure. ^_^


	9. Disconnected

**Disconnected**

He arrived without escort, dressed in a fashionable black and white suit. Feeling distinctly out of place, Theodore stood tall above the other wedding guests, scanning the crowd for her face. He watched with a mixture of curiosity and disdain as the people fluttered about the enormous garden, exchanging gossip and stuffing their faces with hors d'oeuvre.

He had never felt more disconnected from those who were once considered his peers, and he found himself longing for Russia: the brilliant sunsets, the backbreaking labour, and the cold nights spent playing poker with a cheating Pavel and a drunken Misha. But, he had no time to reminiscence. He was brought back to England for a purpose: to find Daphne and tell her that he loved her – to stop her from marrying another man.

"Is that Theodore Nott?"

Startled, Theodore turned to see a group of young women chatting animatedly, casting furtive and bashful glances his way.

"I had no idea he was so handsome."

"He's so _tall_ and tanned."

"Have you read his articles?"

"Bought every issue."

"He writes sheer poetry—"

"You women and your romances."

"There's no romance in his articles…"

"What about the local Muggle girl who was flirting with him and he hadn't a clue?"

"Or the unrequited love he keeps alluding to."

"Lucky girl."

"Mhm."

Hands in pockets, he slowly backed away, uncomfortable with their words and their stares. Long legs, however, equalled long strides, and he unintentionally backed into a solid object. Spinning around, Theodore came face to face with a familiar woman with curly blonde hair and rhinestone glasses.

"Here to bask in your new found fame, Mr Nott?" Rita Skeeter asked in a snide voice veiled behind a fake smile.

"Pardon me?" he asked, confused with both her question and her venom.

"All these women fawning over you," she explained with a wave of her hand, smirking. "But I suppose _any _publicity is good publicity."

Theodore raised an eyebrow in unmasked annoyance. "Why bother with tact, Ms Skeeter?" he stated politely. "Just say what's on your mind."

Her smirked turned into a scowl, frustrated with his control. "My young boy," she said patronisingly, "you did come to the wedding of Patrick Ward and Daphne Greengrass to promote yourself. Patrick's father, after all, is your employer."

Theodore frowned. "I work for _The Quibbler_."

"Daddy sold your column to _Witch Weekly_," came the airy voice of Luna Lovegood, once again seeming to materialise out of thin air.

Theodore took a step back and regarded the quirky blonde with critical eyes. She offered him a half grin and then turned to regard Rita Skeeter, who was hanging on every word.

"I'd be careful of wrackspurts," Luna told the older woman in earnest. "They attach themselves to those who are envious."

Luna then linked her arm through Theodore's and whisked him away from Rita.

"Sorry I didn't tell you earlier," Luna apologised, smiling up at him. "I guess I was too excited about teaching you how to fly."

Theodore couldn't help but return the smile, although it was strained. "My articles—they aren't altered, are they?"

"They've romanticised you, Teddy," came the deep voice of Blaise Zabini, who sauntered over to where Luna and Theodore stood. "You're quite the rugged adventurer slash poet in these women's minds."

"Envious that you didn't think of it first, Blaise?"

They all turned to see Draco walking towards them, offering his hand to Theodore. "Glad you could make it, Theo."

"Draco," Theodore greeted, taking his friend's hand, "have you seen Daphne?"

Draco noted the urgency in Theodore's voice and frowned. "She's most likely inside with Astoria, getting ready for her _wedding_."

Theodore nodded distractedly. "Yes, well I just wanted to wish her… uh… luck before the ceremony." He smile was forced. "I will catch up with you all later."

Forgoing searching the manor, he headed towards the sound of running water. It was there he found her, beyond the red roses and endless hedges, standing in front of the deep green sea that was licking at the shore with frothy cataracts of foam, receding back into the ocean to be churned and devoured and released back onto the shore.

"Theo, you made it!" Daphne cried excitedly, hearing him walk upon the beach. "I didn't think you'd come."

She was dressed in a white robbed dress, embroidered in gold leaves. Diamonds dripped from her neck and intricately plaited golden locks. She was barefoot in the sand, pacing.

"You look beautiful," he admitted with a soft voice, feeling awkward in his own skin as he stared at the woman he had loved since he was eleven.

She blushed a soft pink at his compliment and batted her long eyelashes at him. "You don't look so bad yourself," she said honestly, subtly appraising his new hardened form. "You've changed."

"Eh, sun and hard labour," he said with a shrug of his shoulders.

She regarded him closely for a moment and smiled. "Whatever it is, it looks good on you."

Silence.

"Daphne, I—"

"Wait," she said, holding up a delicate hand and then began searching for something inside the depths of her dress until she pulled out a sheet of parchment. "I saved some of your articles – the one about sunsets and your first love." She sighed. "Your words, they're so…"

He waited expectantly. Did she know?

"I stole some of them for my vows." She laughed, embarrassed. "I hope you don't mind."

Theodore's words were only poetry to her, not truths, not something she could relate to, understand, or decipher.

"No, no," he said, uncomfortable as he backed away, "that's fine."

"Is there something else, Theo?" she asked, mildly concerned.

"No," he replied, his voice barely above a whisper. "I just—" He cleared his throat and forced a smile. "I just wanted to find you and wish you the very best – both you and Patrick."

"Thank you."

How he managed to make his way back to the party, he couldn't even begin to give an account. The wedding ceremony itself blurred by, and the last thing Theodore remembered was catching the bouquet and having Luna Lovegood whisper in his ear about wedding bouquets being an invaluable food source for Blibbering Humdingers.

* * *

**Prompt #9: **Gate-crash a wedding

**Challenge:** Wedding Bouquet

**Word Count:** 1,094

**Author Note's:** This was another two-parter put together. Not my best, but whatever.


	10. Love

**Love**

Love.

It's within all of us – waiting, growing – unfurling like petals on a rose.

_"Teddy?" Grace calls. "Teddy, love, are you coming?"_

_"Yes, Mama," he answers hurriedly, pulling on his riding cloak as he sprints out of his room towards the sound of his mother's voice._

_"Look at you," she croons pleasantly, kneeling before him as she straightens out his collar. "Are you ready for your big day?" _

Love uplifts us. It speaks to us; it guides us.

_She takes his small hand in hers and squeezes it gently, smiling down adoringly at him. She has his broom in her other hand and leads him outside onto the grounds. The sun has just begun to rise, and the dew has yet to settle on the grass._

_He lets go of her hand and sprints ahead, soft laughter echoing off the trees as they take the stone path towards the open field. _

Love is the source of our greatest moments, our most shining achievements.

_"Mummy!" he cries, frightened and nervous, teetering on the broom._

_But she is there in a heartbeat, steadying him, keeping him safe._

_"You can do this, Teddy."_

Love is magic, but sometimes magic… is an illusion.

_"Mama, look! I'm doing it! Mama!"_

_He hovers off the ground, smiling proudly, and he cranes his neck to look for her. She's not there, and suddenly he begins to panic, losing his balance._

_He falls to the ground with a listless thud, the hood of his riding cloak falling down over his eyes. He pulls it up, and it is then that he sees her._

But we obey love, no matter what.

_She's lying face up in the grass. Her body is still, motionless. Her eyes are clouded and open, staring lifelessly at nothing._

_"Mama?"_

_He crawls over to her and shakes her shoulders._

_"Mama, wake up!"_

_He tries again._

_"Mummy!"_

But sometimes love hurts more than we can bear, threatening to shut us down. And, we find ourselves wondering: if we could live without love, could we actually know some kind of peace?

_"… Mummy?"_

Maybe.

But we'd be empty inside.

* * *

**Prompt #10:** Learning to fly a broomstick

**Challenge****:** Use the following quote in your drabble, BUT you cannot use it in dialogue: "Love can sometimes be magic. But magic can sometimes… just be an illusion."

**Word Count:** 365

**Author's Notes:** I did this one entirely in present tense. It just felt right. The flashbacks are in italics.


	11. A Date

**A Date**

"Lovegood—Luna! Slow down!"

His voice was harsh from screaming – out of fear and excitement. Luna had persuaded him to come flying with her again.

"We'll just take a spin around England," she had said. Just a spin. Never mind that he was still terrified of flying – not of heights, just of falling. It was a logical fear, he reasoned.

Luna craned her neck, watching him fly behind her. Not having heard his pleas for her to decelerate, Luna had to anticipate Theodore's desires by reading his facial expressions. And, what she saw on Theodore's face was abject terror.

She pointed down at the pasture below and took a swan dive, landing softly on a field of white daisies. Theodore followed suit, jerking the neck of his broom upright so that he wouldn't topple over and careen into the ground. Despite his vast improvements, he still had a lot to learn about flying.

"It's beautiful," Luna said breathlessly, easily dismounting her broom. She skipped across the field and turned around, glancing up at a slightly shaken Theodore, who had caught a large foot in one of the stirrups. "Let's lie down for a bit."

Tripping to the ground, Theodore let out a loud 'oomph' before he rolled over onto his back and closed his eyes in pain, putting his hands behind his head.

"Well, since I'm already here…"

Hesitantly opening an eye in the glare of the bright sun above them, he turned his attention towards Luna as she sat down beside him. She plucked a few daisies from the ground and absently began to fiddle.

Theodore sat up on his forearms, observing her twist and shape the stems. "You don't plan on fashioning me a crown of flowers again, do you?"

"No," she responded, nonplussed, glancing up at Theodore with wide silver eyes, "should I?"

Theodore shook his head and chuckled to himself while Luna tilted her head and offered him an awkward smile. The sweet sound of a tiny bird chirping cut through the silence, and Theodore looked around for the source of the sound. Spotting a small bird balancing on a small cedar, he smiled at it, admiring its bright indigo colouring.

"What is that?" he asked, pointing a long finger at the tiny bird. "A Blue Finch – a Grosbeak, maybe?"

"It's a male Indigo Bunting," Luna corrected in a soft, airy voice. "Note its smaller frame and lack of rufous wing-bars – and its bright blue colour, which marks it as a male."

"I'm noting," he said, offering the blonde what he hoped was a charming smile. "Are they normally migratory to Britain?"

"Sometimes," she answered casually, leaning back on her elbows, "although someone around here most likely breeds them."

Theodore nodded his head and settled back down into the blanket of daisies, staring up at the clouds moving across the sky.

"So, what are you going to do now – career-wise?" Luna asked, laying her head next to his.

"Write, I suppose," he answered, absently waving a hand in the air.

There was a pregnant pause, and Luna turned her head to face him. "Theodore, I'd like it if you came with me on one of my expeditions some time – to write about it."

Theodore turned, smiling warming at the blonde. "I'd like that, Luna."

The two shared a conspiratorial smile and then turned back to look up at the sky. Who would have ever thought of Luna Lovegood and Theodore Nott going on a date?

* * *

**Prompt #11:** Indigo

**Challenge:** Your drabble takes place in a field of daisies.

**Word Count: **605

**Author's Notes:** Luna's back! I really wanted to extend this one. Actually, I want to extend all my Theo/Luna drabbles. ^_^


	12. Hands

**Hands**

His hands were a torment to him: they would not rest. They twitched in his sleep, and sometimes he awoke to find them shaping the words in his dreams before his face. And, often, he would reach out for hands – familiar hands – that were never there.

He didn't like to look at them: his hands. They were slender and large and remarkably strong: pianist hands, as his mother would call them. He had always taken such good care of them: in the winter he'd use vitamin oil to prevent them from chapping, and he'd push down the cuticles, shaping them to the tips of his fingernails. He'd wash them tenderly, applying lotion, but now he only scrubbed at them roughly with a brush after every meal and then stuffed them back into his pockets.

It was his hands, though, that had led him to Russia, working in a logging camp. There his hands had calloused and tanned, like the rest of his body: growing sinewy and strong. It was a physical growth as much as a mental one. It was his hands that had also taken him back home to England – to write and to eke out some sort of life for himself, independent of his wealth and his father's name.

They were hands that held powerful instruments – the wand and the quill – and manipulated them to his advantage. His were hands that knew the feeling of an honest day's labour; hands that knew how to write, how to nurture. But they were also hands that longed to touch love, to hold that love close and never let it go. Those hands – his hands – were useless now, restless, disturbing him with their wants.

Standing above the Champ de Mars and the avenues of Paris, Theodore rested his hands atop the iron lattice of the Eiffel Tower, waiting. He looked out over the city, the bright colours of buildings and people below him. He imagined lovers gaily travelling the pedestrian malls and cobblestone paths, holding hands, fingers entwined.

A couple murmured words of love next to him, and he pushed himself up to stand, allowing them their privacy. Out of the corner of his eye, Theodore watched as the man got down on bended knee. There was a gasp, hands fluttering to cheeks in shock, then nodding – a hand held out to accept the ring – and the repeated exclamations of yes, yes, yes!

Theodore's lips twitched upwards into a half-smile, and he struck the palm of one hand with the fist of the other, turning around. He would let them have their moment, let their hands seek each other's – to touch and to hold and to love.

Here, he found himself alone, thinking about her. His hands began to shape the words before he knew what he was doing. Then, when he realised that he was like a man caught talking aloud to himself, it was almost as though he had done something morally wrong. The shame and the embarrassment mixed together – and he doubled his hands, putting them behind him.

But they would not let him rest. Never would they let him rest.

* * *

**Prompt #12:** Eiffel Tower

**Challenge:** Your character witnesses a proposal.

**Word Count:** 534

**Author****'****s Notes:** I have an obsession with Theodore's hands, methinks.


	13. Orange

**Orange**

He's in love. He's not sure when it happened, but does anyone ever really know?

What he does know is that he feels her when she's near, thinks of her when she's far away, and he hopes – hopes to discover more about her every day.

He wants to know her heart and for her to know his – to find the heart hidden behind the bruises, to slide her hands from limb to limb beneath his skin. To touch, to taste, to want, to dream. Oh, yes, he dreams...

He dreams about her eyes, silver-blue like the moonlight, and her long blonde hair that creeps like vines down her back. He wants to run his fingers through those messy tendrils and pull – to unravel the mystery that is her, to discover her.

To him, she blurs the line between what is real and what is imagined, and he sometimes wonders if she is something of his own creation – spun from the invisible threads in his mind. Or maybe she created him, like paint on a canvas. For there is no blue without yellow and without orange – and he is the blue to her yellow. He is the dull to her brightness; the cold to her hot. How can one be experienced without the other? How can the other be satisfied, defined, or made complete?

And so he only dreams… for now. But they are not dreams of shadows or faded faces – of love lost or love never to be obtained. Instead, his dreams are made of colour, of her. She is orange. She is possibility.

Is she love?

She's a promise, and her name is on his lips like a whisper, a butterfly kiss that's too beautiful for words. But he will say her name. He will say it someday.

Soon.

* * *

**Prompt #13:** Orange

**Challenge:** "There is no blue without yellow and without orange." ~ Vincent Van Gogh

**Word Count: **306

**Author's Notes:** This is what I write while heffed up on NyQuil. It was a hard prompt, okay! :P


	14. La Lune

**La Lune**

He calls her La Lune (_luminescent, hauntingly beautiful, unique_) in the hours you'd find most people sleeping. But they often stay awake together, lying outside on the ground. They draw their names in the air, in the light of the moon.

It's not a pet name by any means. He doesn't like to use pet names. He is private, even delicate, with his endearments. Every word means something to him, so he does not waste them.

Her name is on his lips again, like a whisper, a butterfly kiss that is too beautiful for words. But he says it – he whispers her name and it sounds like a secret murmured from a composer's lips. There is music in his throat, and he transcribes it against the inside of her wrists as if she's something fleeting and lovely: a song he'll likely forget like filigree curls of cigarette smoke if trusted to his memory alone.

She stirs beside him and turns her face to look up at him. She touches his face, and she talks about everything and nothing: the moon and creatures he has never heard of and doubts they even exist. But he doesn't care. She is so unique and lovely and special.

Then – out of nowhere – she asks him if he likes cats. He says he doesn't know, and she tells him he can't know until he has one in his arms, to pet and to hold. And she promises to buy him one (_they will name him Teddy_).

He smiles at her and dips his head downwards. His fingers trail down her jaw and his lips trace the staves her tendons raise beneath the skin, and she sighs.

She sighs and she tells him that he is a musician, who plays her like a violin – all deft and gentle fingers on her strings. He shakes his head and tells her that he'd rather play only to her audience of one, and she agrees, smiling.

And so he plays, and she whispers words he cannot begin to comprehend. But that is why he loves her: she's new and exciting and never dull. He will spend his whole life unravelling the mystery that is his La Lune.

In turn, she will keep his secrets spun like the music in his breath against her ear. She will keep them, like his heart, and hold them dear.

* * *

**Prompt #14:** New Love

**Challenge:** Cat

**Word Count: **400

**Author's Notes: **NyQuil makes me write weird stuff...


	15. A Life Without Purpose

**A Life Without Purpose**

It was long past midnight, and Luna was gone, leaving Theodore alone with his thoughts. The warm, dark air of the spring morning swirled into the room like soft blue layers of smoke. He had been home for little over a year now, and, sitting at his desk with a bottle of half-empty vodka in hand, he had found himself missing Russia—and his desire to write.

The embers from the fire were smoking red, and crumbled balls of paper littered the floor beneath him. Theodore took another drink and loosened his tie, unbuttoning the collar of his shirt with a sigh. If he were a smoking man, he would have had half a pack of cigarettes smoked already. Instead, he rolled up the sleeves of his white cotton shirt to his elbows and leaned forward in his chair. He stared at the blank piece of parchment in front of him, the quill resting in the ink pot. Several unproductive minutes later, he picked up the bottle of vodka and brought it to his lips, swallowing a long, burning draught.

Setting down the bottle, Theodore licked his lips and glanced at the world globe that sat on his desk. He pulled it closer to him and brought his fingers to its textured mould, spinning the sphere with a sense of abandon. As it twirled, he could not help but grimace. The world was filled with apathy and evil; three-fourths of the globe was either in a state of war or oppression. What could one man do?

He landed his finger on large, brown continent: Africa. He should go there, he mused. He could take Luna with him. They could safari, exploring the oldest continent in the world: the heart of evil. Maybe he could write there—write of something of importance, rather than the dullness of his own life. How could he have even been so vain to sit down to write when he had never truly stood up to live?

Pushing the globe aside, Theodore closed his eyes and took in a deep breath, opening them. He took his quill in his hand and put it to parchment, swirling letters into words.

**Ten Reasons Why I Shouldn't Write My Life Story:**

1. I have nothing interesting to write about.

2. I have never done anything of significance in my life. What would I write about?

3. I have not truly lived.

4. I cannot write about my father—not yet.

5. What will I write when it comes to my involvement in the war? Is being neutral acceptable?

6. No wizard would want to read it. Muggles might, but they're not ready yet.

7. I have absolutely _nothing_ to write about.

8. I cannot write about my mother—not yet.

9. Again, _no one_ would want to read it.

10. I am afraid…

Theodore set down his quill and grimaced. The last reason was the real one. All others were superfluous, centring around the last: his fear, his pride. It was this fear—his fear of failure—that kept him behind a desk, behind his mask.

Theodore let out a sigh and stood up, pinning his list above his desk. He fell back down into his chair with a grunt and brought the half-empty bottle of vodka to his lips. Swallowing, he wiped his mouth and then set the bottle back down on the desk, taking out another sheet of paper.

_Dear Pride,_

_I would like to issue a formal complaint: you have stood in my way of success and happiness for far too long. I would like to be able to try something without the fear of failure dangling over my head like the Sword of Damocles._

_I have decided to leave you behind. Please take care. I won't be needing you any longer. Hopefully you will see the logic in my decision someday. _

_Sincerely yours,_

_Teddy_

**

* * *

**

**Prompt #15:** Your character comes up with a list of ten reasons why he shouldn't write his life story.

**Challenge:** Write a formal complaint letter to your deepest, darkest fear.

**Word Count: **643


	16. Found

**Found**

I was once lost in the darkness, with no guiding star to light my way. The bowers of my existence were laid bare, abandoned by apathy and regret. I had spent my entire life avoiding any type of connection. I had immersed myself in books, escaping the trappings that the real world had to offer. I believed that if I allowed no one to get close, then I would remain safe – untouched. There would be no sadness, no pain, no disappointment.

Life, however, cannot be lived in passing shadows, secluded in libraries and schools. Escapism is a wonderful fantasy in theory, but life catches up with you eventually. Your past revisits you, haunts you, will never let you rest…

But there was a sliver of light in my darkness, a small ray of hope. She reached down with her hand and pulled me up into the light with her. I was happy for a while, but the light she shone was too bright. I felt unworthy in her presence, fearing that she might leave me and take the warm light with her.

I tried, pitifully, to descend back into the darkness, but her hold on me was great. She would not let me go. Instead, she searched for a cause – a reason for why I was so lost, a reason for why I was so afraid. Then, she found a way. I don't know how, but she did. She brought me my past in her hands.

Out of her light, I found another – brighter somehow, and familiar. But this light was not meant for me to join, only to visit for a spell. Turning the stone in my hand, I found myself crying. I cried at the remembrance of her face untouched by time; I cried at the remembrance of what I had lost. So much time… lost.

She spoke to me as if in a dream. Her words were a salve to my bruised heart. She did not explain or excuse or defend – she merely loved me. I, in turn, forgave her. I forgave her for leaving me in the darkness and begged her that when my time came that I could join her in the light. Smiling that radiant smile of hers – the smile that promised warm cookies and cold milk and butterfly kisses all over my face – she told me that her light would always be with me, guiding me. But it was time for me to rise up out of the darkness and despair that I had created for myself and to make my own light – one to share with someone I loved, to create new lights, new hope.

Tears streaming down my face, I dropped the stone – lost once more for someone else to find, someone else who would need it. I turned, and she was there beside me, her silver-blue eyes shining brightly. It was in those eyes that I reached out from the darkness to find the light once more, and it was in her hands that I had found a new beginning.

I had found love.

* * *

**Prompt #16:** You are given the opportunity to talk to one dead person and tell him one thing that you didn't get to before s/he passed away.

**Challenge:** L.O.V.E.

**Word Count: **522


	17. Hope

**Hope**

A muscle works in his jaw, and she can that tell he's trying very hard not to grind his teeth. The tension in his back extends all through his body, and it seems as though the muscle has moved from his jaw to his right eye, twitching away uncontrollably as he tries to hold in his temper at bay. But no matter how he looks, she knows that that same anger and tension in his face will never break through the fatigue in his eyes. He will never snap or lose his control with her, ever. Instead, he remains stone, impassive – thinking.

"What do we do now?" she asks, looking down at the small opened package, with coloured paper blanketing the floor in crumpled heaps.

His gaze is fixed on her hand, on the finger that holds the cursed ring that turns her pale, pink flesh a sickly shade of green. Her eyes, however, are trained on him; monitoring, searching, though for what she does not know. He will have an answer for all of this – a solution. He always does. So, there is no worry in her eyes – not like his.

The silence between them is thick and honeyed, and she decides that it's what will keep her head anchored in reality – strangely golden like the hue of the sunrise outside the window of the flat they both share. The light spills inside, playing over his skin and lighting his sea-green eyes. It accentuates everything in his face that she fears and loves, and she cannot look away from him for the life of her.

He has the look of a man broken, lost then found, driven and hopeless all in the same breath. She can see him trying to keep control in the face of losing everything he holds dear: _her_._  
_  
"I don't know, Luna," he says quietly, taking her hand and meeting her silver-blue eyes with a new-found hope. "Not yet."

His eyes tell her that he will never give up, and she smiles. She knows that he will never leave her; he will never give up.

* * *

**Prompt #17:** You were sent a gift only to find that it was cursed.

**Challenge:** You returned to your flat/home only to discover that your favourite pillow was stolen.

**Word Count: **357

**Author's Note:** For once (1 out of 17 drabbles), I didn't include the challenge. I just didn't feel it, I guess. :(


	18. Infinity

**Infinity**

Ephemeral music curls around his thoughts, like drops of blood bursting in delicate red tendrils through water, and though the song's the same it's always different – different places, different dreams, different lives he's lived…

There is blue smoke in the air – its filigree curls dance in the air and lick at his ears, stinging his already tired eyes. But the drink in his hand, the liquid scorching his throat and burning a hole in his gullet does wonders to shift any annoyance he feels to the back of his mind.

There is no pain, either. His mind has stopped its incessant cries: _dangerous, dangerous, pull back from the edge before you fall and it's too late_… Instead, he pictures her eyes and is amazed by the comfort he finds in the very feel of her each time – the arches and curves and sharp lines of her flesh against his, and the way she smiles…

He feels his pulse beating in the back of his eyes, on the print of his thumb, at the base of his wrist – and he watches as some stranger transcribes his thoughts – his emotions – onto his flesh. A single rivulet of blood escapes his veins, clandestine, and trickles down his palm.

_"I am happy," she says to him as she takes the ring, infusing her kiss with her smile. _

_No "yes" or "I do", but "I am happy", and then she nudges his nose with hers, and for just a single split second he wonders how he had ever lived without this messy, ragged edges love of hers on his heart. And, in that second, he believes that love is and always was eternal, infinite._

He watches the blood dissolve in the water, and he smiles – smiles at the thoughts of what is yet to come and what else life has in store for them. For she is his now, and he is hers, and nothing will ever change that – not even in death.

* * *

**Prompt #18:** The Leaky Cauldron

**Challenge:** Your character gets a tattoo.

**Word Count: **340

**Author's Note:** Yes, Luna is alive – and Theodore proposed to her. _Aww_. I know the ending was rather cryptic (or even morbid), but it just lets you know that Theodore loves his women for all time. :) Wonder what his tattoo is? Here's a hint: the title.


	19. Bucket List

**Bucket List**

It's a gentle tap at first, which quickly escalates to full-blown cuffs to his cheek. His eyes flutter open to the sight of two narrowed yellow-green eyes, watching him with deliberate intensity. Theodore blinks back watery tears and yawns, causing the cat – Teddy – to cock his head to the side and mew. Satisfied with his master's simple acknowledgement, the cat then jumps down off the bed and waits.

Theodore groans and tries to sit up, his shoulders aching with the ghost of old wounds. He extricates himself from the curl of Luna's body around him, careful not to wake her, and climbs out of bed. He tries his best not to curse as Teddy runs underneath his feet on his way to the kitchen.

The feeding ritual is performed with little hassle, and the cat is satisfied for the time being. Pouring himself a glass of water, Theodore opens the blinds to the kitchen veranda and peers outside. The backyard is blanketed in snow – white, hilly mounds of it – and he cannot help but smile and unlock the door, sliding open the glass and then the screen.

He steps outside, his bare feet crunching in the snow. There's a hiss, an intake of breath, as his body quickly regulates its temperature, and the soft brush of fur against his naked calves startles him momentarily. The cat is already out the door, memorised by and terrified of the cold, white substance. But like the brave and curious kitten that he is, he leaps forward, scooping the snow between his paws, trying to capture that which cannot so easily be captured.

Theodore laughs silently at the kitten, watching his breath materialise in the air. He inhales sharply, breathing in memories of Russia. He had meant to return there, had meant to do a lot of things, but hadn't. He had said that he had wanted to live – to write what he lived – but life had become too comfortable, too safe. There was nothing wrong with this, but Theodore knew that he wanted more. It was time for him to be more like his stupid cat, chasing snowflakes and diving head first into adventures.

Shaking his head, he turns back inside, calling Teddy to follow. The cat is hesitant at first, but obeys, thinking perhaps he will receive a treat. He is not disappointed. Putting the treat bag back up on the counter, Theodore pulls out a piece of parchment and quill from a drawer and begins to write.

**Bucket List**:

→ Go skydiving

→ Go back to Moscow and visit Misha and Pavel

→ Finish my novel

→ Have kids

Setting down his quill, he smiles at the meagre beginnings of his list – especially his last point. Teddy looks up at him and mewls, and Theodore bends down to give the cat an affectionate pat on the head. He makes his way to the bathroom, with Teddy content to go back to his meal, and gets undressed, stepping into the shower. Standing under the spray, he feels the water pound away at his heat-reddened skin and lets out a contented sigh. He hears her footsteps on the tiled floor and the gentle swoosh as she opens the curtain. She steps inside and wraps her arms around him from behind, kissing the smooth, tanned flesh of his back. She holds him until the hot water runs out, and he can't think of another life worth living.

* * *

**Prompt #19:** Cat

**Challenge:** Your character decides to make a bucket list at the very top it says: "Go skydiving" - list three more.

**Word Count: **580

**Author's Note:** Bah, this drabble kind of sucks. I wasn't really feeling it.


	20. Full Circle

**Full Circle**

He stands barefoot on an endless white shore, but the wind is no longer howling at his back. Nor is the sea raging before him, threatening to devour him with its white cataracts of foam.

The cemetery is long gone. In its place is a collection of photographs and books. Not the tattered and ancient tombs of his past, but the accomplishments – the possibilities – of his present and future. When the bell tolls in the distance, he smiles a secret smile – knowing that all his questions, all his prayers, will some day be answered.

And then the dream ends, coming full circle.

He wakes up to find her lying beside him in bed – delicious shapes and curves that he wants to touch, to run his fingers over the ridges of muscle and soft flesh. Her eyes are closed and peaceful, and her hair hangs in blonde wisps across her forehead. He strokes her hair for a moment, wondering absently why this love of hers – of theirs – doesn't scare him. Why does he accept it for what it is? Why does he have this marrow-deep need to coexist with her – to be a part of her?

The line of her pelvis is sharp where the sheets pool around her, and he follows her contours with his fingertips, delighting in the wave of shivers that arc beneath her skin. She stirs beneath the sheets, and he offers her a smile as she sleepily blinks open her tired silver-blue eyes, meeting his gaze with her soul-searching depths.

"Is it morning?" she asks, stretching long, pale limbs.

The moonlight plays across her skin, making her look almost ethereal, and he lets out a short laugh, shaking his head in answer.

"Midnight then?" Not waiting for an answer, she sits up and looks past him out the window. "The best time to give good news."

He doesn't say a word – he rarely does – but he sits up with her, intrigued by this facet of information that she has failed to share with him before now. She rolls onto her side of the bed and leans over, and he gently encircles his arm around her waist to keep her steady as she threatens to topple over. Fishing something out from underneath the bed, she calls up to him, and when he pulls her up she is holding onto a small shoebox.

She hands it over to him without preamble, and he takes it, raising an eyebrow in intrigue. He sits upright and takes the lid off the box, lifting out a silver-black pump that he examines quizzically in the pale moonlight. He knows better than to ask her what it means, and so he looks inside, seeing an inscription written on the heel: "fairy tales are true".

His eyes search hers, and she smiles lazily, nodding.

"It's a girl."

Suddenly, there is no air left in his lungs. It has all escaped somehow, so he takes in a deep, exhilarating breath and laughs.

"You're—We're going to have a girl?"

**oOo**

It has been said by a wise man that when you jump for joy, beware that no one moves the ground beneath your feet. Luckily, for Theodore Nott, no matter where he would land, he would always find acceptance and love – and the _hope_ of a new beginning.

* * *

**Prompt #20:** Use the following for inspiration: "When you jump for joy, beware that no one moves the ground from beneath your feet." ~ Stanislaw Lec

**Challenge:** Your character sees a shoe with the words "fairy tales are true" inscribed on the inside label. However, you cannot make any cheesy references to magic or "happily ever after".

**Word Count: **567

**Author's Note:** Done! I did all 20 prompts _and_ challenges for the drabble challenge! I had a lot of fun writing these prompts about Theodore Nott, and I hope you liked reading them. I might continue with some more drabbles later down the road, but, for now, they are complete.


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